“Ah, my dear Mr. Repton, I see you do not keep all your flatteries for the jury-box.”
“My moments are too limited here to allow me time for an untruth. I must be off; to-night I have a special retainer for a great record at Roscommon, and at this very instant I should be poring over deeds and parchments, instead of gazing at 'orbs divinely blue;' not but, I believe, now that I look closer, yours are hazel.”
“Let me order dinner, then, at once,” said she, approaching the bell.
“I have done that already, my dear,” said he, gayly; “and what is more, I have dictated the bill of fare. I guessed what a young lady's simple meal might be, and I have been down to the cook, and you shall see the result.”
“Then it only remains for me to think of the cellar. What shall it be, sir? The Burgundy that you praised so highly last winter, or the Port that my uncle preferred to it?”
“I declare that I half suspect your uncle was right. Let us move for a new trial, and try both over again,” said he, laughing, as she left the room.
“Just to think of such a girl in such a spot,” cried he to himself, as he walked alone, up and down the room; “beauty, grace, fascination,—all that can charm and attract; and then, such a nature, childlike in gayety, and chivalrous,—ay, chivalrous as a chevalier!”
“I see, sir, you are rehearsing for Roscommon,” said Mary, who entered the room while he was yet declaiming alone; “but I must interrupt you, for the soup is waiting.”
“I obey the summons,” said he tendering his arm. And they both entered the dinner-room.
So long as the meal lasted, Repton's conversation was entirely devoted to such topics as he might have discussed at a formal dinner-party. He talked of the world of society, its deaths, births, and marriages; its changes of place and amusement. He narrated the latest smart things that were going the round of the clubs, and hinted at the political events that were passing. But the servants gone, and the chairs drawn closer to the blazing hearth, his tone changed at once, and in a voice of tremulous kindness he said,—“I can't bear to think of the solitude of this life of yours!—nay, hear me out. I say this, not for you, since in the high devotion of a noble purpose you are above all its penalties; but I cannot endure to think that we should permit it.”